


Divine Lightning Rod

by FortuneSurfer



Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Pining, Season/Series 02, late to the party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-29 23:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18303632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortuneSurfer/pseuds/FortuneSurfer
Summary: At a crossroads, a different choice is made.





	Divine Lightning Rod

**Author's Note:**

> This is not beta'd, but I'm doing my best.
> 
> I love feedback and talking to fellow fans, so, I would love to hear if you like or dislike the story I am sharing with you

Going back to Harlan the second time, _choosing_ Harlan, after Dan has offered him to take him back, treating him like a child who has proven himself not ready to be adopted, Raylan feels both stupid and proud, yet somehow undoubtedly gravitates towards the second.

Well, at least, for the first half of his homecoming.

He ain’t going to let Art get rid of him, not now, not like this. He’s had enough of this bullshit – first being sent to teach at Glynco by Harry Arno, then being transferred from Miami, when each time he was simply doing his job the best he could. And they know full well Marshal Service needs a man like him to make difficult decisions and use the gun he’s given when the shit hits the fan, even if they’ll poke him for it afterwards. And Harlan has definitely proven to need a marshal like him, too. So, now that he’s returned there, he’ll take care of all the garbage collected over twenty years, and then, Raylan probably leaves forever. Because he’ll want to. Not because he's some half-broke horse.

First thing he does back in Kentucky is calling Ava to find out if any of Bo’s men have tried to do anything stupid while he was away. Second, Raylan drives home to finally hit the sack after two sleepless nights, but in his motel room, he is standing in a chalk outline, looking at Arlo’s bloodstains on his sheets. And slowly pulls his car keys out of the pocket of his pants, studies them.

He probably could go to Ava’s (just to sleep, he has no energy for other things), if saving someone from being executed by a father-in-law-drug kingpin is any relationship glue. Or he could go to the Marshal Service office and discuss his non-transfer with Art. But instead Raylan drives to the hospital where, he figures, Boyd must have been admitted.

 

/// 

 

The night shift nurse is wary of him after she remembers his name because he is _that marshal Raylan Givens who can_ _’t get through a day without calling an ambulance_ , and Raylan is too tired to feel annoyed and/or embarrassed. She won’t let him in Boyd’s room, she isn’t persuaded even by his badge, but Raylan hasn’t come all the way for nothing and insists on, at the very least, being informed about Boyd’s condition.

The nurse purses her lips.

She tells him that not only Boyd has lost lots of blood, he also had been beaten up before. Raylan is willing to bet that Bo had something to do with it, and his fists clench involuntarily. He thinks about Boyd being a goddamn idiot who was running around ever since his daddy had punished him and about the way Boyd has always prioritized his stubbornness over pain – which often made him look scary as a kid, – and how a few months ago Boyd was ready to be killed just to prove some point and, as a result, was that close to seeing his Maker, which ain’t easy to forget, especially with how Raylan keeps reliving that stupid shit in his nightmares.

In that moment, he must have the face of a murderer, judging by the way the nurse is eyeing him.

Raylan breathes out the tension already built in his chest and says to himself that Boyd Crowder has nine lives. He always recovers. It’s a simple, undeniable fact that manages to make the whirlwind of his worry drop.

Then, Raylan asks the nurse about visiting hours at the hospital, trying to sound as polite and stable as he can, and after doing some basic math decides to spend the rest of the night dozing in the admission hall.

And after that, they hear Boyd’s voice through the door, asking to let Raylan in.

 

/// 

 

Boyd ain’t gonna be next Miss Kentucky, but he looks not as bad as Raylan kinda expected him to look like. Maybe the fact that there is no bullet hole in his chest plays a part. They banter about that when the nurse begrudgingly leaves them alone, because she can’t handle them both insisting on this visit.

When Raylan asks him why it hasn’t occurred to Boyd to seek any medical assistance, Boyd grows more serious and tells him that he was too busy. “Digging graves.” Raylan hopes that it is a metaphor but can’t help clinging with his gaze to the dirt under Boyd’s nails.

Boyd helps him to change the subject by asking about the state of Gio’s niece and if the resolution in Florida has been a peaceful one.

“Miami cartel will leave me be for now. Unless someone, and by someone I mean you, Boyd, will stir the embers.”

“I assure you, Raylan, right now, I’m so exhausted that it takes me effort to stir anything more than a finger.”

“Given that they’ll keep you here only for the next couple of days, I’m not entirely relieved, no. And that if you won’t slip out of the hospital.” Boyd snorts in the way he does when he is annoyed, but the corners of his mouth also turn up in a little sly smile, which tells Raylan that he is still pleased that Raylan knows him so well. “Though I understand the exhaustion part. I’m more than ready to drop, or the next shit-for-brains con will have real hard time with me. But one last thing to clear before I can do just that is where you gonna go from here.”

“The question of all questions, ain’t it?”                                                                     

“Boyd, for the sake of clarity and saving time, I meant literally, with your legs.”

Raylan figures that Boyd will probably be evasive, that is even more than usual, if he won’t tenderize him before asking about his daddy. And he is genuinely curious where Boyd is going to start his next church, or another local affiliate of the Patriot movement, or a club for pyrotechnic enthusiasts.

“Why, Raylan? You already planning a good-neighborly visit with the bottle of your finest bourbon? Or does your boss want to toss my humble belongings once again?”

“You blow up something and kill somebody, I bring along my friends from the office, sure. You know how that works. And actually you were the one who came to me last time. I couldn’t have hit you that hard.”

“‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend. [1]’ You know, I never fully understood this expression, but you trying to keep me from great calamities with all the methods available to you certainly has been elucidating in this respect. Even if painful in others,” says Boyd thoughtfully, making no effort to draw attention to his bloody nose and yet managing to do it anyhow.

Raylan raises his eyebrows, amused, wondering if Boyd has just enough painkillers in his bloodstream to clouds his mind or _not_ enough because he honestly couldn’t tell now. However, Raylan can tell that he is about to give into the sentimental urge that has been growing inside of him ever since “you’re the only friend I have left in this world” and the smile across the car seat – and then he’ll take a seat beside Boyd’s bed, and they’ll probably talk and talk until the nurse shoos him out of the room, since he has nothing better to do until morning, and it’d be exactly like their conversations long time ago, which he, in all truth, has missed very much.

“Alright, Boyd. As much as it excites me to hear that I’m somehow playing your divine lightning rod again, you still haven’t given me a tangible answer.”

“My answer is apparent. It’s ‘everywhere,’ for I have no home left.”

“But you’re the sole heir of your family’s place, aren’t you?”

“My father has disowned me before his passing, and while it may not change my legal status, it will assuredly make me unwelcome by certain presences that you perhaps been away for too long to take into consideration.”

Raylan smirks. He could easily make a joke about Boyd being too old to believe in any of them hillbilly ghost-stories, but he can vividly remember how their childhood expedition to the house of those extinct Grigsbys made his skin prickle. And besides, it ain’t have to be all superstition, Boyd can be hesitant to admit that he’ll miss his daddy, however shitty Bo had been lately at fulfilling his fatherly duties.

_This isn't something I wanted to do, son._

For a second, Raylan for no reason thinks about telling Boyd that Arlo was going to shoot him last evening but figures that this shared wound is still too fresh for both of them.

So, Raylan leaves it at that – just smirking to himself.

Boyd continues to deliberate the future of his legacy.

“If my daddy hasn’t made cousin Johnny pay for his rebellious aspirations with his life, he’ll rightly own the Crowder residence. Otherwise, I say, that house shall belong to ghosts, like all past.”

“Wait a second,” Raylan frowns, catching up. “Are you trying to tell me that you ain’t feeling like Crowder anymore?”

Boyd pauses, stares at him, and blinks.

“That’s right, Raylan. This is, as astonishing as it might seem, what my often repeated words about feeling lost meant.”

“Good. You must be feeling better, if sarcasm’s any indication. Maybe they’ll let check you out in the morning.”

Raylan is playing casual, but he can’t help feeling unease about what he just heard. The whole roots and family issue has always been different to Boyd than to him, and if he’s saying that he ain’t feeling like Crowder, it really says a lot about his alleged ‘being lost.’

“And unless you want to keep me company till then – which I would greatly appreciate, but I’m sure your boss prefers his marshals having slept well, – let’s see together what the circumstances leave me with.”

“Just remember, Boyd: when in doubt, I can always put you back in prison.”

“Or deputize me, as you did with Dewey Crowe.”

Raylan needlessly adjusts his hat to momentarily hide his smirk.

“Sorry, I think we ran out of vacancies. But go back to your hobo, I mean, hermit talk.”

“It’s interesting that you bring it up, Raylan, because I don’t think that I have the right to ask churches to shelter me, given my history with Lord’s houses. And in all truth, in my current psychological state, I think that I poorly lack the presupposed religious conviction, too.”

“Okay, and what kind of conviction do you have instead?”

Pause.

“I don’t know, Raylan. None.”

Raylan watches away. He remembers how the other day, the other time at the hospital, Boyd was ardently explaining to him how God was acting through him and his gun, and he didn’t know how much he could believe him. But this, it’s like the sea of possibilities that Boyd was swimming in all his life has dried up.

And it’s not something Raylan wanted to see happening to Boyd Crowder. It’s plain wrong.

Boyd asks him, and his voice is quieter than before:

“What do you do when you lose God, Raylan? When there is silence on the other end of the line.”

And here Raylan is, being ambushed into the role of a witness to Boyd’s existential predicament. Again. He keeps pushing these bigger-than-life questions away from himself every day, and Boyd keeps bringing them up in their entrenched push-pull dynamic.

Boyd is looking at him from his pillow like his life depends on Raylan’s answer, and Raylan doesn’t feel like he can handle this kind of responsibility (but he chose to save Boyd’s life when he fired that shoot, didn’t he?).

Raylan sighs and starts talking, choosing his words very carefully.

“The things you've always done?.. It seems like the most sensible idea. I mean, I never considered myself to be the chosen one and don’t have the same downgrading and dismissing problems as modern messiahs, but…”

He doesn’t know what he is going to say next, but it doesn’t matter anyway.

Boyd’s eyes light up with inspiration. He opens his mouth and finishes the sentence for him.

“But we always go back to who we are.”

And it probably makes sense. Raylan nods, uncomfortably.

“Yeah... Something, something like that.”

The words settle inside of him, and Raylan can feel how next something very important for Boyd blooms in silence.

“Thank you,” Boyd says finally, and Raylan half-expects him to touch him (very gently), like he did that other time months ago. But he is standing at the foot of the bed, too far away from Boyd, and even if he wanted to touch him again, he couldn’t do it.

But the emotion in Boyd’s eyes is telling.

“Maybe Saint Jude delegates his duties sometimes.”

“Right, maybe he _deputized_ me here on earth.”

Raylan hopes to himself that whatever happens next won’t turn out as ugly as it did last time his divine intervention put an idea into Boyd’s head. Raylan is preparing to leave.

“But what I said only applies if you won’t make trouble, Boyd. Because if you do, I’ll…”

“Hunt me like a dog. So much was clear.”

“Can’t be too sure.”

“I’ll think about your words. And I promise, I won’t be too hard for you to find.”

“And what about troubles? Any promises about that?”

“Why, you starting to believe me, Raylan Givens?”

Raylan chuckles and shakes his head, knowing better than to say: _you think, I’d be smarter than that at this point_. And decides to leave on a business note:

“As I said, I need to hear from you that you won’t try to stir up that hornet’s nest in Miami and drag down everything that’s been fixed tonight. So that, you know, I can feel entitled to personally kick the shit out of you if you lie.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Alright."

 

And so, Raylan actually has mostly himself to blame when Boyd moves into his motel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Proverbs 27:6

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Proverbs 27:6
> 
> **Update:** Originally, I have planned to write a lengthy fix-it AU on the subject of Boyd and Raylan becoming neighbors in the wake of the first season, but after a re-watch of the whole series, the idea sadly doesn't look as appealing to me as it was. I suppose that I may still write some kind of continuation of this story it in the future, just not as a part of this particular work. 
> 
> In any case, I want to say that I am amazed by how many positive responses even this little fic has received, and I want to say a big thank you to you all. I am not a native speaker and a newcomer to the fandom, and you folks are golden, and I am touched. I hope that my decision to leave the story like this won't be too much of a disappointment to you. In my experience, it truly is a bad idea to write something without being enamored of it anymore. On the bright side of things: I believe that my understanding of the characters/storytelling in Justified was significantly deepened over the course of the last two moths. And I hope that it'll be easily recognizable in my future Justified fics because this series is the best one that I have ever seen, and I definitely want to write more about its characters.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all again!!! <333


End file.
